


All-American

by UneJolieOrdure



Series: Reader Beware, You're In For a Scare [5]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Book Club, Breathplay, F/M, Face Slapping, Fight Sex, Hair-pulling, Infidelity, Painful Sex, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader is her own warning, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Suburbia, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Violence, Wine moms, Wtf Reader honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 17:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13528911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UneJolieOrdure/pseuds/UneJolieOrdure
Summary: You never wanted to live in this neighborhood, anyway.





	All-American

**Author's Note:**

> I had completely lost inspo for these until I heard this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u_hDHm9MD0I  
> Then this fic slapped me in the face and broke a wine bottle over my head. It’s my suburban!nightmare fic with a sort of tie-in to “Trout-Heart Replica," though you don't need to have read that one first by any means.

You are in your big, modern kitchen with its sleek black counters and its gunmetal grey appliances, listening to Margaery tell an absurdly long story about a beaded clutch that she lost in an Uber. Wine glasses in hand, you, Maggie, and several other suburban housewives are standing around your kitchen island, pausing for refreshments at the meeting of your monthly book club. Well, it’s only Sansa who still insists on calling it a book club. Nobody’s read a book in ages. Everyone just drinks and bitches and eats too much spinach dip and spills wine on their expensive blouses. 

You don’t like this book club, and it certainly wasn’t your fucking idea.

One day, Maggie caught you outside getting your mail while she was jogging by in pink spandex, hair perfectly coiffed as if she hadn’t just been pounding the pavement with the fury of an Olympic triathlete. During the ensuing chatter, she had suggested that she and some of the other ladies in the neighborhood get together at your house for a book club. She wanted to get to know you better, she had insisted. _It’s been months since you moved in and I never see hide nor hair of you!_ So here you are. At the book club, several months in, having only read half of _Eat, Pray, Love._ Too late to escape.

You and your husband do not fit into this neighborhood very well. As Maggie is always quick to point out, Ramsay is not very easy to talk to, does not like to go to dinner parties, and would never consider joining any local subcommittees or volunteering at a library. He would not even BBQ for the Fourth of July block party, despite the fact that you own the largest grill on the block. It has never been touched. For your part, you are also not the most fun to talk to, and sometimes some very objectionable music can be heard coming from your house when you’re the only one at home. It has a lot of pipe organs, guitars, and screaming. 

When you got married, Ramsay promised you the best, but if this is the best, then you would rather live in a trailer park. You don’t tell him this, of course. He's worked very hard to get you here. What he does, you’ve never quite been to drag out of him—something with his father, something not altogether legal—but whatever it is, he works long hours at it, and you appreciate that too much to let on that you hate suburbia.

Just behind Dany’s perfect, silvery braid—she’s talking about politics again, and everyone’s eyes are glazing over—you can see a sliver of the mud room. The door opens quietly, then closes again. The dogs don’t bark, so it can only be one person. The staircase is obscured, but you catch a hint of shapely female leg, a sudden breath of foreign perfume, more than one tiptoe heading up the stairs. None of your guests take notice, but you immediately prickle. 

“Excuse me, ladies,” you say abruptly. On your way up the stairs, you grab an empty wine bottle from the sideboard. Alcohol sings through your nerves, in the places where anger has frayed them. You fling open your bedroom door. Your husband is already on the bed, but the girl is standing with her back to you, in the middle of taking off her coat. As she turns, you swing hard and efficiently and break the bottle over her head. Immediately, a red flower blooms on her scalp, and she collapses back onto the bed. Glass flies everywhere, tinkling on the floor and sliding under the dresser, pocking the navy blue comforter. A moment of silence. The ladies downstairs don’t appear to have heard the impact; their chatter continues uninterrupted. 

“I think she might be dead,” Ramsay remarks nonchalantly. He looks incredibly amused. 

“Really? Myranda from the doggie daycare?” you say, half-mockery and half-disgust, staring down at your victim. “She always smells like piss.”

“She’s good with our dogs, though, isn’t she? Are you going to stab me with that?” He gestures to the jagged neck of the bottle, which you are still holding. He doesn’t sound afraid; more curious than anything else. You don’t grace this with a response. 

“I thought I said no more.”

“No more what?”

“No. More. Fucking. Other. Women. In. My. House.” You glance down at your sweater, notice some blood splatter soaking into the beautiful grey wool, and grimace. “This sweater was expensive.” You strip it off and toss it at the laundry hamper, as if you're going to be able to salvage it. 

“Since when do you care about expensive sweaters?”

“Fuck you. Get that slut off my bed.” He pushes the limp body off onto the floor with a loud thud. Myranda from the doggie daycare crumples into a skinny heap. You can see a sliver of a pair of silky panties under her twisted dress. Her head wound is bleeding all over your rug. 

“Everything alright up there?” one of the ladies calls up the stairs. 

“Just dropped something,” you call back. “Be down in a second.” You brandish the broken glass in your hand in a vaguely threatening manner as you crawl onto the bed. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking kill you.”

“Saved by the book club.” He raises his hands in mock-surrender. “What would the neighborhood ladies think if they had to help you drag _two_ bodies out in one night?”

“That body,” You point at Myranda from the doggie daycare with your weapon. “Is all yours to dispose of.” You swing one leg over him and straddle his lap, your knees pressing into the comforter, looming over him dangerously in your white bra. “And what makes you think I give a fuck about the neighborhood ladies?”

“They’re in our kitchen, aren’t they? Drinking all our wine, eating all our fine cheeses...” 

“Ha, ha, ha,” you drawl, arranging his dark hair on his forehead with over-exaggerated tenderness. “So damn cute.” Ramsay, bold to the last, puts his big hands on your thighs and squeezes. “Are you really going to try to fuck me with the girl you were planning to fuck instead dead on our floor?” You press the sharp points of the jagged bottle right over his heart and think about putting all your weight behind it. 

In a flash, he’s flipped you onto your back and stolen your weapon right from your hand. He tosses it to the foot of the bed. You make a guttural noise of frustration. 

“You know I don’t say please.” You give a buck of protest, which earns you a stiff slap to the face. You taste blood. “Quiet, now.” With another seamless movement, he’s got you on your knees with one arm wrenched behind your back. He pushes you forward, dangling your head off the edge of the bed so that you’re almost face-to-face with Myranda from the doggie daycare. Now that you’re closer to her, you can see her chest rising and falling shallowly. The fact that she's alive doesn’t give you much relief. All the blood is rushing to your head, and you can feel Ramsay pulling down your jeans. Small slivers of glass press into your bare stomach. He grabs a handful of your ass, then gives it a smack. He releases your arm to gather up your hair and knot it around his fist. You scrabble for purchase, clutching the edge of the bed, as your scalp screams.

“I’m going to fuck your ass,” he informs you. “If you make a sound, I’ll gag you with my girlfriend’s panties. Would you like that?” You shake your head as best you can. Your mouth is suddenly very dry. “I didn’t think so.” He pulls your hips upwards with his free hand, then, suddenly, his finger is probing your ass. He spits into the cleft and uses his own saliva to slide first one, then two fingers inside. You grit your teeth. It burns. Before you’re even used to the sensation of his fingers moving inside of you, he withdraws them and immediately drives his dick in dry. You bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming. He fucks your ass mercilessly, grunting with satisfaction as he tears you open. Tears form involuntarily in your eyes. 

Leaning forward, he loops an arm around your throat and pulls you backwards, onto your knees. Your throat rests in the crook of his arm, the pressure just enough to make your head swim. His other hand drifts down to test the lips between your legs. He laughs. “You’re actually wet. This is why I married you.” You don’t answer. You’re trying to stay quiet. You can feel a line of blood working its way down your thigh. Downstairs, you can hear Margaery’s loud cackle. They don’t suspect a thing. 

You dig your fingernails into the forearm curled around your throat, pushing so hard that you feel a dribble of hot wetness. Ramsay doesn’t seem to notice that you’ve broken skin. He’s panting in your ear, calling you a million nasty names. Suddenly, his arm clamps tighter, cutting you off from air entirely. As you gasp, sparks dancing in front of your eyes, you let go of his arm, draw your elbow forward, and slam it back into Ramsay’s solar plexus. He swears and releases you, his dick popping out of your ass, leaving the hole pulsing and smarting. 

Immediately, you turn on him and shove him back onto the pillows. His head cracks against the headboard; his gaze goes fuzzy for a moment. You take this opportunity to climb on top of him and mount him, sliding his slightly bloody cock into your pussy. You ride him like an animal, your body rolling and bucking. 

“You think you can get away with that?” he growls, reaching up to take you roughly by the jaw. You bare your teeth at him. 

“You think you can fuck other women where I sleep?” Your voice comes out hoarse and violent. That earns you another slap to the face. You rake your nails down his chest, drawing blood, collecting flesh underneath your finely shaped fingernails. Everything is a sweaty haze now, blood, pain, a hot, tight pleasure in your gut, the burn of your muscles. You have never been more in love. You lean in. 

“I want to fuck you to death,” you gasp, and then you bite down, hard, over his jugular. It’s then that he comes.

After you roll off of your husband and catch your breath, you pull your jeans back on and cross over to the closet to get a new sweater. You choose a soft green turtleneck. In the mirror, you fix your hair and your make-up. Your cheek is a little red from the palm of Ramsay's hand, but it's not to noticeable. You turn back to the glass-strewn mess of the room, the bloody man on the bed, the bloody girl on the floor. 

“I don’t want to live here anymore,” you say dispassionately. When you pass Myranda from the doggie daycare, you see that she is blinking slowly, unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth, stirring her crumpled limbs. “And get her the fuck out of here before she starts to scream or something.” 

You rejoin your guests in the cream-colored living room. Maggie takes one look at you and guffaws; she’s clearly had too many glasses of wine. 

“Someone just got laid on the sly,” she says with a wink. 

“How can you tell?” Sansa asks, scandalized, stiffening where she sits.

“Oh, I can tell,” Maggie assures her, placing a conspiratorial hand on her arm. She laughs again, gleefully. “I just _love_ this book club, don't you?”


End file.
